


Contact

by Typey



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: AU Week, F/F, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Typey/pseuds/Typey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: “We were both playing wingman for our friends who have now decided to go home together, and after five minutes of conversation we fucking hate each other, let’s bang it out AU” — I imagined Wollcott and Steve pairing up half because, well, ~he's cute~, and half because it's obvious their girls are dense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contact

“This place always just _reeks_ of overcompensation,” William Wollcott very nearly whined from next to Helena.

Standing by the door, Helena scanned the lit-just-well-enough-to-tell-what-brand-you’re-wearing bar looking for somewhere they could stake out a perch. Wolly needed entertainment for the evening, and she was there to keep him on the right track in his choice of gentleman. The word, she’d learned soon after moving to the States, was “wingman.”

While she quickly rejected any openings along the wall opposite them as tactically flawed and then ruled out the two stools shoved too close together directly in front of the row of taps, Wolly made a very obvious show of inspecting each of the other male patrons and dismissing them with anything from a resigned sigh to an outright snort.

Ignoring her friend, whose night-out antics she was quite used to after three years of friendship, Helena turned slightly to get a view of the nook between the end of the bar and the front window, the view through which was blocked by the back of a neon sign facing the street — there was usually a high-top table stuffed into the too-small space, making it less than ideal for the purposes of the evening, but it seemed that she and Wolly were in luck and Helena took a step toward the available spot.

Directly into the shoulder of a woman. A woman whose curls were only just enough this side of wild for the look to have been completely intentional and whose sleek silver top and impossibly tight black trousers left only the exact right things to the imagination.

She didn’t leave her opinion to the imagination, however, curling her lip in disdain and declaring to her well-muscled male companion, “Well, _her_ manners are impeccable.”

Helena hadn’t backed away, and the two women had shifted their bodies away from each of their friends so they stood toe-to-toe and sneer-to-sneer. “Yes, they are. Which is why I’m waiting kindly for you to explain yourself for having barreled into me not unlike one of your troglodytic gridiron players.”

Helena usually found American bar-goers’ attention to her accent and diction tiresome, but she wasn’t willing to have her character impugned any more than she was willing to have her prime real estate snaffled. And if she had to use the most-precise version of her speech, had to affect a supercilious tone and employ a lexicon to match, to drop this gorgeous woman down a peg? She would.

And if Helena leaned forward enough to verify that green eyes indeed were tracking between Helena’s lips and down the V of her neckline? If she raised an eyebrow to indicate growing impatience with the lack of a response, knowing that the expression was often also construed as sensual? It was to display her superiority, not because she’d been caught up in the force of this woman’s presence and and needed at least a small measure of time to regain her composure.

Composure she’d almost achieved when she was thrust again into anger. Oh, there were some words Americans needed to learn not to use so freely. 

“Too bad innate hooliganism can’t be covered up by twenty-five cent words.”

“Look here, you…” Wolly’s hand on her shoulder kept Helena from backing the taller woman up against the wall. A result she hadn’t realized was imminent, though one she wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to enacting.

Yes, her instinct to step forward into this woman’s space, to raise her chin and lick her lips in preparation for baring her teeth — those things she had done without thinking — she wouldn’t be at all opposed to following through with their promise. Asserting herself in front of this smug, glib, disarming woman, Helena wanted to do that. She wanted this woman to try with all her might and _still_ not match Helena; make a go of it, certainly, but not outdo her. 

Helena wanted to…

“HG!” 

She turned sharply toward Wolly’s voice, narrowing her eyes at his interruption.

“What?” She spoke as sharply as she’d spun away from the previous object of her attention.

“Well, Steve and I have been trying to _subtly_ let you two know for the last, oh, four or five minutes, that he and I are going to move along somewhere more amenable to conversation.” Wolly’s smirk could have been directed at Helena, but she was sure it must have actually been one of pride that he’d succeeded in picking up a good-looking date for the night before they’d ordered a drink.

That good-looking date turned to his own apparent wingman to confirm that she, too, had acknowledged the men’s plan. “Myka? You got that? I’ll see you Monday at the office?”

Myka. Smug and smoldering had a name.

Smug and smoldering hadn’t taken her eyes off Helena, but she answered Steve with a distracted, “yeah, I think I’m gonna stay here and finish this with _HG_.”

A sharp intake of breath was the only sign that Helena was about to launch into a thorough flaying of this woman who had once again used a word foolishly, but it was a sign Wolly was quite prepared to heed.

“Myka, dear. She really does prefer ‘Helena,’ especially with new, ah, _friends_.” He winked at Steve while taking up his hand, though Helena hardly noticed they were even moving toward the door.

The women’s standoff continuing — Myka smirking at a perceived score, Helena torn between chasing after Wolly for an explanation of that last emphatic word and turning her fury back on _Myka_ — neither of them noticed the two men tossing last looks over their shoulders and leaning their heads in to laugh conspiratorially.

Neither of them noticed that they’d stepped close together again, that they were breathing in the same air, breathing out onto each other’s skin.

Neither of them noticed that the other patrons were opting not to step into that small nook tucked between the bar and the front window, against the wall wide enough for shoulders and hips pinned against it. Neither of them noticed that they weren’t alone in the bar. Neither of them noticed the bass line setting a tempo for anyone dancing.

What they did notice? Their own thudding pulses and the slide of hands over fabric. Impossibly silky hair falling in among wild curls improbably tame enough to card through as their foreheads rested together softly. 

An infinite moment of the universe anticipating the inevitable.

They kissed. Hard.

Myka reached up to run her fingers across Helena’s jaw, down the side of her throat, up from the nape of her neck. Helena curled her own hands more purposefully into Myka’s hair. All of reality was contained in that space bounded by their arms.

Time stopped whenever their lips met, and raced in those in-between instants when they had to gasp for breath and when whatever cosmic pull that had drawn them to each other earlier now bid them find a way to get closer, discover the ways their bodies fit together.

Fit together perfectly, the way Myka’s thigh slipped between Helena’s just as her own knees were growing weak with the effort of standing up and keeping Myka pressed against the wall. The way Helena’s hands dropped to Myka’s waist to steady herself and to teach Myka the rhythm thrumming through her veins. The way Myka’s thumb found a spot that made Helena’s head fall back, leaving her wide open for a purposeful, claiming kiss to the flushed skin in that perfect expanse of freckled skin neither throat nor shoulder nor collarbone. That perfect expanse that would be marked come morning.

And Helena wanted to be marked, and she wanted to mark. She leaned forward, her own knee finding enough space to work herself right up against Myka, her mouth close enough to lay down a string of kisses along Myka’s sternum, to suck hard at the inner slope of a perfect, inviting breast.

They rocked together, muscles flexing, bodies insistent. Helena slipped one hand down Myka’s arm to entwine briefly with the fingers on a hand grasping at the front of Helena’s jeans before sliding it under the shimmering shirt that was now clinging to Myka’s overheated body in the most alluring manner. 

Helena moaned as Myka dropped a hand into the now-undone jeans that provided nowhere near enough room for what they both had in mind. But they didn’t need to be comfortable, they just needed _contact_. _Motion_. _Friction_.

Helena rolled her hips onto Myka’s hand, the heel of Myka’s palm sending shockwaves through Helena on every thrust. And Myka matched the pace that Helena set with her denim-clad thigh against the seam of the black pants Helena desperately wished were anywhere other than _on Myka’s body_. 

Rolling, urging, moaning, climaxing, they fell into each other’s arms, the paneled wall behind Myka the only thing keeping them upright. The intimacy of their embrace belied the evening’s start, and Myka chuckled softly, still short of breath. “So how much more will it take for me to earn 'HG,' because I think I’d like to try.”


End file.
